


Home Late

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Series: Vampire Sentinel [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Horror, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-20
Updated: 2004-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair is stranded and can't get to Jim when Jim needs him.  If you really need spoilers, check the end notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Late

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know a little more about normal weather expectations of the Pacific North West these days. It's a storm of the century situation here, okay?

The pasted on smile that I'm wearing for the stand-by clerk is definitely starting to slip, but since she's probably dealt with hundreds of frazzled and downright angry and desperate people over the last few days, I don't think that she notices. As long as nobody is actively threatening her bodily harm she's operating on autopilot as much as everybody else.

"I'm sorry, Mr, um, Sandburg, but there's just no spaces on any of the flights into Cascade for today. You do have a reasonable chance for tomorrow."

"Look, I have a family situation that I have to get back to. My partner is sick, okay? It's really important."

She's professionally sympathetic, but that isn't going to make a seat appear on anybody's plane any quicker. Frustrated, I peel away from that damn desk, which is becoming an unlikely living room in my second home of San Francisco's airport terminal. Two days, and likely to become three. I've been camping out here in the hope that if I just badger hard enough I will somehow cosmically bring a plane ticket into being. Restlessly, I head off into the terminal, no longer quite so busy as it was two days ago. No, it's just the visitors from Washington state and a few Canadians who aren't guaranteed able to get on their merry way now. Everyone else is fine.

I look out a window at the grey sky and drizzle. At least here there are no snow drifts, lines down, roads blocked. An unforecast extreme storm, and people still blather on about how no, no, the green house effect doesn't exist, and it's certainly not affecting the weather. Naomi would gently suggest that if I drove something with a catalytic converter myself, then I'd have the moral leverage to suggest that Jim give up that tank cunningly disguised as a Ford truck.

Disconsolately, I kick the bigger of my bags, not that hard. I check my watch. Time to call in, see how he's doing.

"Ellison."

"Hey. Just me, checking in, but there's no joy yet. I'm still enjoying the scenic sights of the terminal. So, how's it going?"

"I've given up on the Good Samaritan thing. I wasn't keeping it together. I think that Simon was glad to see me go, to be honest."

"But you're okay?" Which is a dumb question. His voice is flat and quiet, as if talking is just too much effort.

"I'm managing. How much longer?"

If he's gone home with the city barely out of an emergency situation, and is using words like 'managing' then he's not doing so well. I hate having to give him the news that I've got so far.

"I'm playing Nemesis at the stand-by counter but they're still talking tomorrow." He mutters under his breath. "I'll keep plugging, okay. But I'd better go, I can't recharge the cell until I get home. Love you."

"Yeah, I know," he sighs tiredly. One of these days I'm really going to give him hell about this Han Solo fixation of his, but to do that properly I have to be in the same city as him. Damn it. We knew that we were taking a risk, but you expect the blizzard of the century the same way you expect the Spanish Inquisition.

So, I blithely headed off to a major four day conference: big opportunities for liaison between different Police Departments, and a lot of very interesting seminars, including one on identity theft and computer fraud and hacking. That one I really was interested in, because I was hoping to pick up some useful pointers. Jim and I are going to have to leave Cascade behind at some point. Hopefully, before people stop cracking jokes about whether he's got a really scary picture in the attic, and the people who are partly in the know about our private life stop making sly jokes about how tired I look these days, and just really start to wonder what the hell is going on. I look fine, I just don't look quite so young when I stand next to Jim anymore.

The budget provided for one attendance and Simon was determined that I should go. "I can rely on Sandburg to take proper notes, he can present some of the material to the PD when he gets back, and let's face it, he can schmooze a lot better than some people." This with a pointed look at Jim. Oh yeah, shmoozing all the way, if by that my esteemed boss means networking and talking to people. It just had to be right bang at the point in time where Jim was going to need feeding.

I suggested that he just top up the tank before I went, but he is such a stubborn bastard about it. He won't do it until he needs to. I, not very politely, pointed out that we were going to be a day past the usual schedule as it was. He, oh so patiently, pointed out that he could last okay and to stop worrying. He shut discussion down in the usual way, getting up and doing make-work, no eye contact. I think that he has this little superstition going that if he takes it when he doesn't strictly need to that he's going to turn into a druggie for it or something. So, I was going to miss the last bits of the conference, catch a late afternoon flight back to Cascade, and Jim and I would have our own version of a celebratory dinner when I got back.

It's not as if people didn't know that bad weather was coming. It's just that people didn't realise just how bad until everything was shut down. If I'd known I'd have got back somehow. And instead, I'm quietly destroying my stomach lining here because I'm several hundred miles too far away when he needs me. He's now three days past where he normally needs it, and we've both observed that when he gets hungry everything starts to go downhill fast.

I try to pass the time by reviewing my notes, tidying up stuff, and planning out some overview seminars. Next time Simon wants me to be his official conduit of other people's bright ideas, I'm going to tell him to make other arrangements. In between these endeavours, I make sure that the nice ladies and gentlemen who are trying to co-ordinate flights for the stranded don't forget what my face looks like.

I spend a very restless night on the terminal floor. I don't sleep well, but you don't have to be in a deep sleep to have bad dreams. Periodically I wake up from a totally crappy example, and curse Jim and myself for being arrogant sons of bitches who assume that the world will organise itself on our behalf. It's not as if it's done it before, why should we have expected it this time? I start haunting the desk by 6.15 am. When it finally opens, the clerk informs me that there's a flight to Portland. I lose my temper.

"I need to get to Cascade, okay. Portland is no fucking good, half the roads are still closed, my partner is sick and I need to get home."

She's pretty young and looks at me with a fight or flight stare, emphasis on the flight. Ashamed, I shut up. She tries to shrug off her adrenaline, but her smile is a little shaky. I had no idea I was so scary, at least to petite airline clerks who probably haven't even turned twenty yet.

"Yes, sir, but there's a small commuter flight from Portland to Cascade that you can connect to. The weather is manageable at the moment, and they've cleaned up most of the runways. It'll be getting back to normal soon."

Ah. So feeling like a complete idiot I apologise and thank her and she makes out my pass. With any luck (yeah, right) I should be home for a latish lunch.

I know that Jim might well be sleeping, but I call him to let him know the good news. He's slow and a little disoriented, it seems to me, but relieved. My flight's due to leave about nine, and I head off to see if any of the showers are free, muttering about the cost of towel hire under my breath.  
I'm nearly due to get on my plane when my cell beeps.

"Hello?"

"Blair, it's me." It's Jim and I wonder what's going on.

"Hey man, I'm just about to catch my flight."

"Simon called."

He's not any more forthcoming than this, and I start to panic. Has something happened to somebody, Joel or, oh god, Daryl?

"What the hell is it, Jim?"

"He said he might come and check on me, he was worried about me with you gone."

I have a moment of 'is that all?' and then it falls into place for me.

"Oh shit."

"What if I can't stop myself?" Hissed in barely controlled Ellison panic. He doesn't know what he's going to do, and he's not in a position to think clearly. Neither am I, which is not helping.

"Jim, it'll be fine. Just talk to him through the door, tell him you don't want to give him your bugs or something."

"You don't get it. I'll smell him. Jesus, it's like I can smell half the city here, hear everything. All those people." And unspoken: all those heartbeats, all that blood.

"It's going to be fine. I'll be there soon. Just hang on, buddy, it'll be all right. Look, even if - anything- does happen, it's not as if Simon would have to remember it, okay?" Pathetic reassurance.

"I'll fucking remember it," he snarls over the phone. And since there's no rebuttal to that observation, I don't even try.

"I'll be there soon," I soothe. I hear the boarding call for my flight. "I've got to go. Hold on, okay." He doesn't answer me.

Longest plane ride of my life, until I get to Portland, and hop on a sixteen seater. I try calling Jim while I'm waiting in the terminal and there's no answer. Okay. That is so not propitious.

I hate flying in anything that doesn't provide at least the illusion of not really being a plane. In your average domestic flight, I can't repeat my usual mantra of it being a ferry ride, or a really unusual multiplex. I tell myself to give up the control issues. Somebody else is in charge here, Sandburg, just deal. It's a short flight, with a good view of the propellers, and seems to last an eternity. The approach to Cascade is shrouded with low hanging cloud and bumpy with turbulence and I am seriously thinking about reaching for the paper bags in the seat pocket.

At long last, I'm on the ground, in Cascade. As soon as I'm off the plane, I try to call Jim again. There's no answer, which scares the shit out of me. Is Simon sitting in our home wondering what the hell just struck him? Has Jim gone out to hunt for some anonymous victim? I really don't want to think about that. Instead, I start off at a jog trot though the terminal, hoping that nobody thinks I look suspicious. Alert security; there's a strange, wild -eyed looking man hauling ass out of the airport. I can flash the badge if I have to, but I'm just not in the mood to present a good image of Cascade's finest if I have to face any unexpected delays. I do flash the badge outside so that I can take over a cab that somebody's sweet looking white-haired mother was about to climb into. She looks displeased, but there's nothing she can do about it, and I collapse on the seat and tell the driver to head for Prospect.

I try to call Jim. No answer again, and I leave a message, again. The drive is slow. The main routes have been cleared and gritted, but once we start approaching the side streets leading to home, things slow right down. The snow has started to melt but there's plenty left yet. It's pretty, although only if you don't think about the misery that it's left in its wake.

I'm past being nervous about not getting here okay, and well into nervous about what I'm going to find when I get back home. Even if everything's okay, and Jim has a perfectly good reason for not answering the phone, I can't pretend that I look at these little monthly occasions with perfect equanimity. It's all gone well enough, we have a balance here; a balance that I chose after all. But it's still scary at some primitive level; it hurts - just a little, like that first moment when a needle goes in, before all the good stuff starts. That's not the first time my mind has snuck in a drug reference for all this, and I wonder if maybe Jim is right to be uptight about not doing this until it's absolutely necessary. It's sure as hell necessary now.

We finally get there, not without the occasional gentle slide on the ice, I pay off the driver, and head for our building, muttering under my breath like some poor bastard who lives in a cardboard box. "Hey, Jim, I'm home now, it's okay, just a couple of minutes, sure hope that the damn elevator is working." Meaningless chatter, meant to soothe me as much as him. He must know that I get anxious over this stuff, and if he doesn't get the same way, I'll eat my degrees. I keep muttering all the way through the building lobby, up the elevator, down the hall to 307's door.

I don't even have time to search for my keys, when the door opens and a hand grabs my arm and hauls me in. This is not exactly unexpected. Other things are kind of weird though.

Did you know that all those beautiful Greek marble statues in museums were originally painted? They put shells and jewels in the eyes, even dressed some of them, especially the ones depicting gods and goddesses. And then the eighteenth and nineteenth century antiquarians came along and raved over all that non-existent pale classical purity.

I feel as if I'm looking at a clothed and painted statue of Jim. Someone's dressed him, in pretty rumpled clothing, and put colour to his hair and eyes, but the rest of him is cold, chiselled marble, very beautiful and quite inhuman. I dump my stuff on the floor and anxiously reach out to put my hands on his shoulders. The loft is freezing. Even if the power was still out, we have a fireplace, but I can damn near see my breath in here.

"Oh, Jim, oh man, this is not good."

There's no answer, just hands reaching out to my clothes, yanking my jacket halfway down my arms, then tearing the collar of my sweater and shirt. It takes quite a lot of force to rip good material like that, and I stagger. Jim grabs me across the back of my ribs and thighs and hoists me up like a six year old. My head ends up a little higher than his, my throat directly on a level with his mouth. I'm startled as hell, and rapidly heading for scared stupid. Even the first time, that time we both thought he was far gone, he knew what he was doing and he was gentle. But this - I'd need the Hubble telescope to see where Jim is now. There's nothing in his face to show that he knows anything - where we are, who I am, who he is.

He opens his mouth and I go berserk. I don't care what sort of balance we have, the very oldest parts of my mind know that fucking big teeth like that are not meant to be anywhere near me. It's a quietly desperate struggle, and futile. My arms are tangled in my jacket, and his grip is bruising me, but it doesn't stop me from kicking and jerking in his arms like a spastic child. When he bites it hurts, maybe no more than it ever did, but being that scared amplifies everything, and even knowing that it's dangerous, I can't stay still.

The rush of pleasure starts soon enough. Orgasm can certainly be a whole body experience, but you can pretty much guarantee that it's still centred in the groin. This is a like a beautiful spike that starts in my brain, that uses my spine as a fuse, straight along to my balls and my cock, and on out to the rest of my body. It's so, so good, but I remember a dead man lying against a wall behind a bar. I bet he felt so, so good, too. Then I don't think at all, just feel, warmth and physical bliss, gone to it. Everything transmutes to pleasure - the harshness of Jim's hold, his mouth moist against my neck, even my fear. My voice rises. I am lost in sensation.

It ends, eventually. I am, I discover, still alive, still in Jim's arms, with my head lolling against him, and my feet dangling off the ground. I have no sense of time, and for a while he stands completely still. Then I feel him start to tremble. "Jesus," he mutters, and puts me down. He finishes stripping off my jacket, careful now, then scoops me up in a cradle hold and puts me on the couch as gently as a father putting a sleeping baby to bed. He scans my neck, mutters "Jesus" again, and disappears briefly, returning with the first aid box.

I look down at myself, half expecting to see blood, but the only untidiness is what's left of a favourite shirt and woollen sweater. I'm glad. It's good that this version of vampirism is clean, given how anal Jim is about mess. I make a noise that's meant to be a chuckle. He whispers, "Hush, Chief," and puts a dressing on my neck. My clothing is adjusted to cover me as best as possible, an afghan put over me, and then he moves away behind me. He quickly reappears within my line of sight and efficiently builds and lights a fire in the fireplace.

I get with the play a little more, although I now feel cold and sick with shock. Not just because of what he did. I came into the loft knowing that I was probably going to be facing something extreme. I might not have admitted it fully, but I still knew. And instead of facing it, I picked the worst possible moment to get in touch with all the worst possible feelings. My god, if I'd ever freaked out like that in police work or in a field situation...And Jim is treating me like some rape victim and identifying himself as the perp. I am stupid, stupid, stupid...

I'm growing uncomfortable. The ripped clothing feels odd, and the mess in my shorts defines the word 'clammy'. I want to check out the dressing on my neck where Jim won't see me doing it. It's easier to worry about these purely practical things, in just the same way that Jim is attending to the fire. Messy clothes I can do something about. The disaster I've just made of Jim is too frightening to think about now.

"We have any water?" I ask him.

He looks startled, then makes his report like a good soldier.

"The power hasn't been on that long. I doubt there's much hot water, if that's what you mean. The water was out earlier, but I suppose it's back now." He gives an embarrassed shrug. "I haven't been using it much."

Damn. That means a quick and unsatisfactory clean up with baby wipes. I haul myself off the couch and he hurries over to me. His hands grip my shoulders. He's providing support, but he's doing it from the end of those very long arms. He is too far away, and instinctively I push towards him. The room is cold enough that, even with his lower temperature, there's some comfort in his warmth. He hesitates, then hugs me. I hug him back, the first time I've held him in a week. He is still and wary in my arms, and soon pushes me gently back, looks at me without speaking.

"I'm okay," I say. "I just need to clean up."

He won't let me do anything. I'm settled back down, while he hunts up clean clothes and wipes. He watches me like a hawk as I make my way to the bathroom. I should give up the modesty schtick, and do this in front of the fire, but there's a mirror in the bathroom. I've left the afghan on my shoulders and I do as much wiping and changing as I can under its somewhat drafty shelter. Then I take a deep breath and check out my neck. The dressing is about half the size of my palm. Making some allowance for the adhesive, it can't be that bad, can it?

Hoping really hard that I will be able to reseal it tidily, I lift the dressing. Objectively speaking, it isn't that bad, not really. A raw, uneven looking patch slightly larger than a quarter, not even bleeding, just looking rather moist, albeit a bit deep. Subjectively, given that we've previously been used to two discreet punctures that were well on the way to healing within a few hours, it looks pretty terrible. God, Jim. I'm sorry. I'd like to tell him that, if I thought that he would snarl back, 'and so you should be'.

Even if he was in the mood to snarl, it would be 'and what the hell do you have to be sorry about, Sandburg?' But he'll be in the grip of that really weird calm he gets afterwards, and he'll say the same thing, but just gentle instead of angry. I suppose that I should be grateful for the little bliss-out he gets afterwards, or else he'd be freaking out big time himself. I want to cry, and that's the absolutely last thing I can do. I have to be calm, straightforward. I can't pretend it was nothing, that would really piss him off, but this is just one of life's stumbling blocks. I have to make him see that.

Not surprisingly, over the next couple of days, there is none of the glorious, loving sex, which usually comes out of Jim's post-feeding energy high. Jim is - resigned - to the touches I give him, casual hugs and pats. It's discouraging, to say the least. When he needs to sleep he comes to bed, but I half wish that he'd just stay on the couch. It's not as if he'd be any further away. Jim puts his energy into work, and I tag along like a good partner. There's plenty to do as all the emergency stuff winds down, and the investigations that ended up on hold for the duration start back up. I find time to write a report for Simon on the conference. Between the excuse of the cold weather and 'raised glands' no-one questions me wearing a muffler wrapped around my neck. My aversion to cold is a running joke at the PD.

It takes me a few days to pick my moment. I half hope that Jim might start talking on his own. It has been known to happen, albeit rarely, and usually when he thinks I need 'fixing'. Part of me would be happy to channel his more usual strategy and pretend it never happened, except that I don't ever forget what happened other times I didn't discuss important things with him.

I just wish I knew what the hell to say. For me, control and discipline are tools. You want to get something done, well fine, use control, use discipline, but you can always put them away for fun or in event of emergency. But Jim, he hangs on to control the way other people hang on to their blue chip stocks or their religion. He hates to lose it, and he certainly doesn't need me rubbing it in by losing it myself. Shit.

We get home in the small hours after one of the more tedious, freezing and silent stakeouts I've endured. Yeah, I pick a _good_ moment, but Jim's studied silence about this, and practically everything else, is getting on my nerves. I'm cold and I'm hungry, but breaking down the gate of Fortress Ellison has suddenly become more important

"Jim, I think we need to talk about what happened when I got home from San Francisco."

He gives me an inscrutable look, which is bad, because that's Jim's facial shorthand for 'piss off'.

"Let's rearrange some pronouns here, Chief. _You_ need to talk about this. I can process on my own."

Well. That's helpful. Not.

"So that's what it's called. No wonder I got confused. I thought that I was just watching you bottle everything up, like usual."

"And your problem is?"

"It doesn't stay tidily bottled up, man. What happens is that it all starts to fester and ooze, or else it erupts very messily. And I don't want to live on either Love Canal, or Mt St Helens just before the big blow. So could we just bite the bullet here?"

"How about I summarise, huh? I'm pissed about losing it and hurting you, you're pissed about losing it and being scared, and we both resent the hell out of the fact that we're living in a bad horror novel. Have I covered the bases?"

"Dammit, it's not that tidy."

"Well, there's a surprise. Tell me something, why are you still here?"

"Excuse me?"

"Here, with me. Living here."

I hate it when he does this, asks something when you're not sure if he really wants the answer or is just trying to be as offensive as hell.

"What kind of question is that? I'm here because I love you, I want to be with you. When things are crappy, I assume that they'll get better, and I hang on until they do. It's worked so far."

"This is not going to get better." I shiver at the utter certainty in his voice.

"Says who? Look, I'm not going to pretend that what happened was great, but it was hardly your fault, and if I hadn't thrown some stupid hissy fit, whatever damage was done probably wouldn't have been so bad. It's healing well enough, I'll lay money on there not even being a scar in the end."

I'm getting the measuring look, now. Also notable for not being a good look to be receiving from Jim Ellison. Then the bleak calm that's been his habitual expression this last week changes as he looks at me. The stern lines of that beautiful face soften a little, but I don't see passion or tenderness in his eyes, just sadness.

"That's right," he says, "no scar." Then he kisses me, his lips and tongue cool against mine. I don't expect it, I'm nervous and angry, and knowing that half the anger is guilt in disguise doesn't help much. Despite that, I melt, because between the travel and the whole complete mess when I got home, this is the first time he's intentionally touched me, sexually, in about a fortnight and, god, I missed him.

I open up to him, even as I think that this is a classic Jim avoidance technique, and not a good idea, we still have to try and sort out this mess, I'm not finished - and then he runs his hands over me, and I think that maybe we could table the discussion for later. Far more important to return the kisses and the caresses, to give pleasure back for pleasure.

"Shower," he says, "you're freezing." He hustles me into the bathroom, and turns on the water. He strips himself, then me, and we step under the water. My feet start to tingle uncomfortably with returning circulation, but that recedes from my notice when Jim kneels in front of me and takes me in his mouth. I've been half hard through the business of kissing and taking off clothes and this pretty much ensures that I'm fully erect and ready for whatever Jim has to offer.

I brace myself on his shoulders, because my legs need a little help here. He knows what it does to me when he does this. It's not just him going down on me, fantastic as that is. Jim on his knees in front of me pushes some of the buttons that I'm not so proud of. This man, bigger and stronger than me, a proud man, a dangerous man, lets me fuck his mouth like some slave fantasy. Gets me every time.

I know that I'm going to come, and I gasp out a warning. He pulls away, hand replacing his mouth as I shudder through climax. Then he lifts off his haunches to kneel with his face pressed hard against my belly, one arm locked around my waist, as he brings himself off with his hand. Tremors run through him and I bend, as far as I can, given the iron grip he has on me, to wrap my arms around his head and shoulders. The water from the shower head pours over the both of us, washes everything down the drain.

He stands. For something so intense, it didn't take long - that's abstinence for you, I guess. There's plenty of hot water left for the mundane job of washing. I wish that he looked more relaxed, but I lean and rub against him, enjoying the slickness of lather between us. He murmurs, "Same management, different roller coaster, huh, Chief?" and I'm abruptly recalled to reality. We sort this out, no avoidance allowed from either of us: because no way is he getting away with that remark.

Shower finished, I head upstairs and put on the old sweat pants and long-sleeve tee I wear in bed in the cooler weather, drag my robe over the top and head downstairs again. Jim is finally coming out of the bathroom, having ensured that it's tidy to his standards. While he grabs some clothes, I hope that a grilled cheese sandwich and tea will be adequate fuel for the job in front of me.

Jim comes down, sits on the couch and turns on the tv. Uh uh, I don't think so.

"Y'know," I say, in what I'm trying to make a conversational tone, "if I didn't think that you have every right to be upset now, I might get teed off about this assumption that I stay with you because I'm some of sort of obsessive, co-dependent adrenalin junkie."

He's silent. ESPN is clearly more fascinating than I am, even though Jim usually has no patience for competitive skate boarding. He's parked himself in the middle of the couch, with the tv remote his sceptre, and his determination to be in a state of splendid isolation is almost a tangible thing. I sit on the other couch, where I have a good view of an uncommunicative profile.

"Fuck it, there is nothing wrong with me for loving you, because there is nothing wrong with you."

That gets a reaction. He changes the channel. Then he looks at me. "I think that you're forgetting a few things, here." There is a pause. Once he would have taken a breath, but that habit is gone. "It wouldn't have mattered who came through that damn door. Could have been Simon, or Steven, or my Dad, and the exact same thing would have happened." He looks at me. "You were terrified and I didn't give a shit. Wouldn't have mattered who it was, or how they scared they were." It's the most he's had to say, outside of work, in a week, and then he falls silent, and looks at the tv again. More sport. Golf this time.

"Jim..."

He holds up a hand.

"Just leave it alone, will you. Talking doesn't change anything." There's a gleam of humour in his face suddenly. "I'm assuming it'll get better and hanging on until it does. Okay? "

I feel a little reassured, but that roller coaster remark hurt, as does the fact that he's shut down communication where he has; but there's no point in pretending that I'm not exhausted.

"Why don't you go to bed, Blair. You must be wiped." Jim is clearly not intending to go to bed himself. I look up at the bedroom, which, Jimless, looks about as welcoming as an unsheltered sleeping bag on top of K2. I go up, grab a pillow and come back down again. He's turned the sound right down on the tv while I'm doing this, and he looks a little surprised to see me.

"Move up to the corner," I tell him. His look is long-suffering, but he does it. I prop the pillow up against his thigh and grab the afghan to drape it around myself, and then settle myself. There are occasional advantages to being short. I'm turned in to the back of the sofa, and his hand lands on my shoulder. I suspect the angle isn't comfortable for him, but I'm not turning down the offer of contact, not after this week.

I'm nearly asleep when he speaks.

"Hey, Sandburg."

I smother irritation. I do want him to talk, after all, but if he says, "Are you asleep?" I'll kill him.

"Even when it's crappy..." He pauses, regroups, I guess. "You're the most undysfunctional thing I've ever had in my life. You know that, don't you?"

And this is the bastard who says that talking doesn't change anything.

"I'm supposed to take that as a compliment, am I?"

If I looked up, I know that he would be looking at the tv screen, not at me. I don't look up, but I smile.

"Yeah," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has dub-con elements - Jim is out of his head and feeds on Blair when Blair's not really ready for that.


End file.
